A Thousand Ways to Love You
by joanhawks
Summary: Aragorn and Arwen meet in a modern AU. Can they find their way to true love? Intrigue, desire, and romance. Rated T for future chapters.


Chapter 1

The nock on the door startles me out of my reading reverie. I snap the book shut and swing my legs off the window seat. "Enter!"

The door opens on Ada, who's wearing a gray suit and carrying his briefcase. Oh, no. "Don't tell me you're leaving?"

Ada gives me a rueful smile. "Sorry, sweetheart. Emergency call."

"Dr. Elrond to the rescue," I mutter and stop myself from pouting, because at twenty six years, I really should be too old for that. "When are you coming back?"

"I might be out late. Promise me you won't stay cooped up in your room all day?"

"Hey, I like reading."

"You can read in the gardens. Some fresh air would do you good."

"Says the doctor," I mock him lightly, but quickly add, "I promise I'll go out if you promise me a rain check on the fair."

"Done." He shifts his grip on the handle of his suitcase. "Sorry, I have to—"

"Go," I wave him away. "Save another life. Good luck!"

He sketches a salute with his free hand and closes the door after him.

I lean back against the window and sigh. We were supposed to visit the May Fair together, and the prospect of an empty afternoon is hardly appealing. I find myself longing for company. I glance down at the book in my lap, some lengthy romance. Male company, I admit. The time I've spent with Grandma Galadriel was sorely missing in that aspect. And I don't mean the twins, either.

I read some more, then take Ada's advice and go out into the gardens. They're beautiful. The Lady Tulips and hyacinths are in full bloom, the one blushing prettily, the other rising proud and purple. The air is rich with perfume that tickles the back of my throat. I love Spring. It's a season of new beginnings and growth, and I feel something inside me, too, struggling to begin or grow.

Up ahead I hear a fountain gurgling, and I follow the path in its direction. Then I stop short, taken aback by a voice:

_"When I consider every thing that grows_

_"Holds in perfection but a little moment,_

_"That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows_

_"Whereon the stars in secret influence comment_ . . ._"_

It's a man's voice, warm and mellow, interspersed by the _snip-snip_ of a pair of shears at work. It's coming from behind a row of rose bushes. And unless I'm mistaken, that's Shakespeare on his tongue.

Intrigued, I inch closer and peer around the bushes. There he is: wearing the green uniform of a gardening company, his black curls dancing as he works the shears with calm confidence. He's tall, but not overly, and the way his shirt's fabric stretches across his broad shoulders does something to my stomach. There's an air about him, some sense of regal power that makes him special. I'm suddenly very curious to see his face.

_"When I perceive that men as plants increase,_

_"Cheered and checked even by the self-same sky . . ."_

I walk out onto the path. "A gardener, reciting Shakespeare?" I challenge him.

He pauses in his work, lowers the shears, and turns toward me. His features are strong and proud, but pleasant, with stormy gray eyes that capture my stare and a hint of a smile on his lips.

"I thought I was alone," he says.

I smile to take the sting out of my previous words. "Is it part of your job, to recite poems to flowers?"

"Perhaps." He trails a finger over a rose petal. "Do you think they appreciate poetry?"

My eyes follow the movement of his finger until I blink and tear my gaze away. "They might. You have a pleasant voice."

What am I doing? I didn't mean to say that!

The man's smile deepens, flashing white teeth. "Would you hear more of it?"

"What, shall you compare me to a summer's day?" I counter.

He laughs, a soft and effortless laugh that makes me grin in return.

"I'll leave that to The Bard," he says. Then he makes a curious little half-bow from the waist up. "Estel, at your service."

"Arwen," I return. "I feel like I should curtsy back, but I'd probably look like a fool."

"Not to me. Never to me."

His intense words, coupled with his intense stare, send a frisson down my spine. Flustered, I step back. "I should let you return to your work," I say, and reach out a steadying hand for the bushes. Pain stabs my finger. "Ow!"

"Let me see," Estel says, and suddenly he's beside me, as if he'd teleported there instead of closing the distance between us with three quick strides. I gulp. If his presence was impressive at a distance, up close it's all but overwhelming. He smells like roses and sap and something sharper, more masculine, that I cannot name.

I cradle my smarting hand to my chest. "It's nothing."

"Your nothing is bleeding."

That surprises a laugh out of me, and I look down. Indeed, the thorn has ripped into the sensitive pad of my index finger, and a large droplet of blood is welling there.

"Here," Estel says and takes my hand. His fingers, warm and steady and just the right kind of rough, dwarf my own. I feel the warmth spreading up my arm, my neck, and blossoming in my cheeks.

Estel withdraws a handkerchief—a real cloth handkerchief—from a pocket, and presses it over the small puncture wound. His touch is gentle but firm. How much more power, tightly controlled, is coiled in those arms of his . . .?

And why am I thinking such dangerous, exciting thoughts?

"Thanks," I murmur and back away, weary of the bushes this time. "I'll, ah, see you around, I suppose?"

Estel gives me a slow smile that causes my guts to tighten. "I would like that."

I muster what dignity I still have and retreat into the house, where I promptly look for a window with an overview of some rose bushes and an unusual gardener.


End file.
